


Beyond Words Spoken

by DanikaElfStone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, M/M, Slash, squish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanikaElfStone/pseuds/DanikaElfStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share a special bond. John is forced to deal with Sherlock's "death", but before he is over it Sherlock is back, and John's world is turned upside down. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John” Sherlock said, his voice faltering, “John, I love you”

“Sherlock? What?” John said stunned, barely believing his ears.

“I love you, John” Sherlock repeated.

“I… I love you too, Sherlock. Ever since I met you.” John said in a whisper.

“John will you do something for me?” Sherlock asked choking back tears, his voice thick.

“You know I’d do anything for you”

“Look up.”

John Looked up and saw his beloved Sherlock standing on the top of the building. Right at the edge.

“Sherlock! No. No no no no no no. Don’t tell me you are about to do what I think you are. Don’t you BLOODY dare! I love you Sherlock! You can’t do this to me!” John practically screamed down the phone. 

“John I want you to promise me that you will go back to Baker Street. I want you to go into my room. Under my bed you will find two boxes. In one is information on Moriaty the black one. And in the other, the red one… well you’ll see. John can you do that for me? Can you promise?” Sherlock said, no longer hiding the tears that were now streaming down his face.

“Sherlock I love you” John said, his voice barely audible.

“John you know I love you. And… and do you trust me, completely? One hundred per cent?”

“Yes” John said his voice thick with tears.

“Then trust me when I say that love is worth the fall. I love you John. I need you. I love you, John.” Sherlock’s voice trembled and he could barely choke out the last sentence.

“SHERLOCK!”

John watched as the man he loved, the man who loved him, jumped. It felt as though his whole world was crashing to a halt. He couldn’t breathe, he just watched as he saw the man that he loved fall. Fall to the ground.

It felt like it took an age for Sherlock to hit the ground. His eyes steady on John until the moment he could feel the ground crush the life out of him.

“SHERLOCK! …Sherlock…” he shouted before his voice trailed off into a heart wrenching murmur.

John started to run across the street towards Sherlock’s body, dead body, but before he was half way across a man on a bicycle knocked him to the ground. He hit his head on the cold, hard concrete, dazing him. It began to drizzle.

John reached Sherlock's body at the same time that a crowd had begun to gather around it.

“LET ME THROUGH! I’M HIS… his… I’m his friend!” John exclaimed as he tried to push past the people in his path, “I’m a doctor! LET ME THROUGH!”

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and felt for a pulse, hoping against hope. Nothing.

John fell backwards consumed by pain and grief. The weight of what had happened crushing his chest. He began shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face, his body quaking with silent sobs.

“AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” John screamed as he sat up in bed, dripping with sweat

It had been three weeks since Sher– since it had happened but each night the nightmares that made him relive the worst moments of his life woke him screeching in pain. Every night he felt the pain of the wound as fresh as the first time he had felt it.

John stood up and moved to the open window, the ice cold air calmed him somewhat. Taking deep, racking breathes he moved back to the bed. He ducked under the bed and retrieved the red box. Ever since it had happened john had been unable to sleep anywhere but in Sherlock’s bed; his sheets still faintly clung to his smell.

John opened the lid of the red box. With one hand he wiped away a tear. With the other he reached into the box and lifted out its contents.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thank you Mrs Hudson. No, no don’t worry I’m fine. Honestly Mrs Hudson it’s no trouble I can manage.” John said, trying to give himself the opportunity to practise alone and in peace.

It had taken him two months two come to terms with the death of Sherlock. Two months for him to be able to say his name.

Finally alone, John picked up his fresh pad of blank sheet music and placed it on the music stand that stood in the living room. John unlocked Sherlock’s violin case seeing for what seemed like the one hundredth time the writing on the red lining _S. Holmes Royal Albert park 4pm_.

John liked playing the violin, he was a completely hopeless musician but it made him feel connected to Sherlock. The sound of the violin made him think of the times he would come home to find Sherlock composing.

John would play for hours reminiscing. Or often he would take walks around London, aimlessly wandering.

Although he missed him terribly John found it easier to be thinking about Sherlock than to try and push him out of his mind completely, and then suffer the inevitable flood of emotions as something reminded of him and his barriers were down.

This time John had decided to try his hand at composing. He doubted that he would be any good, but he felt that it was something he would have to do.

John tried and failed to compose for quite a while before he finally sank into his armchair admitting defeat. It was useless! He put the violin back in its case.

“Fuck!” John exclaimed “Fuck this! I can’t do this anymore Sherlock!”

And with that John stormed into his room. He pulled the red box out from under Sherlock’s side of the bed sank down onto the duvet. John lifted out of the box Sherlock’s purple shirt and buried his face in it.

“Oh Sherlock.” John sighed.

John sat like that for hours. In fact he was sat there for until almost three in the afternoon completely ignoring lunch. For that matter John had been ignoring most meals these days. He hadn’t noticed.

When he finally broke out of his reverie John felt he needed to get out. He grabbed his cloak and his stick – the pain in his leg had returned, as had the tremor in his left hand – and walked out the door. He didn’t have a specific destination in mind; he just wanted to be active.

He had been aimlessly around London for just over an hour, when he bumped into a tall dark haired figure. “Sherlock?” John asked, but before he could take a closer look at him, the man had disappeared into the crowded streets.

“Pull yourself together!”  John muttered to himself, “What is the use, you know he’s gone!”

This really didn’t help the matter. It had just made John feel lost and alone. He turned the corner and found him in the Royal Albert park. Spotting the back of a bench he made for it, but by the time he reached it, it had been claimed by a rather dumpy sort of man. He walked past the bench, looking for more solitude, and he caught a glimpse of the man’s face, it looked vaguely familiar.

John was just placing a name to the face when the man called his name.

“My, oh, my. It’s the infamous John Watson.” The man said.

“Er, hi Stamford.” John said tentatively.

“Well isn’t it funny how history repeats itself? I remember we met this exact way the day I introduced you to that Sherlock fellow.” Stamford gabbled, unaware of his wrong footing.

“Yes, indeed. Quite funny.” John said stiffly.

“Terrible business, all that. Suicide. I never would have thought. Mind you, Sherlock was a rather peculiar character. And on top of that, well, I suppose you might tell me. Is it true that he was a fraud? Was it really him that committed all those awful crimes? You never can trust the papers these days.” Stamford enquired.

John had to count to ten under his breath before answering. It wasn’t the first time that he had been asked such questions. He had to remember his dignity.

“No. I don’t know. Prove that it wasn’t him or was. You can’t. The only two witnesses are de… dead. They are dead.” John tried and failed to keep his voice from faltering, “There is no way for anyone to prove the case either way.”

“Well of course. I was just curious. I thought you might be able to shed some light on the topic for an old friend.”

“Right, well, I really better be on my way. I… er… I have to run an errand. I need jam.” John said, thinking quickly.

“Oh god! Look at me, I should have seen you were in a hurry; the speed you were walking and all.” Stamford apologised, “Well cheerio old chap! We really ought to keep in better touch this time!”

As he walked away, John let out a shaky sigh of relief. It was never any easier each time he was questioned on the street about Sherlock. He _knew_ he wasn’t a fraud. But he couldn’t tell anyone that because who would believe him?

He was anxious to get back, and didn’t particularly feel like walking so he took a cab; it was faster than the tube.

After what seemed like an age, he was safely in his bed, his hand wrapped tightly around the purple shirt under his pillow. John was desperate for sleep to come, but he knew that when he did he would be forced to relive the worst few hours of his life. Unconsciousness claimed him eventually, though, and he fell into a restless, uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Mrs Hudson bustled about in the kitchen making the tea and looking for the teapot.

“Oh John,” Mrs Hudson clucked, “Did you have to put the teapot in the oven? Honestly.”

“Sorry, sorry.” John mumbled apologetically, “I can get a bit distracted sometimes.”

“Oh I know how that goes. It gets me in a right old dither.” Mrs Hudson replied, “Once I put a bag of flour in the freezer! Took forever to defrost, it did!”

 _The good thing about Mrs Hudson,_ John thought, _is that she never gets angry. Not really._

“Here we are!” Mrs Hudson said setting the tea tray on the little coffee table between the two arm chairs. Her voice was tight, but John could tell she was trying her best to lighten his mood.

“Really Mrs Hudson, you don’t have to do this.” John said, doing his best to sound kind.

“Oh it’s no bother. I’m not your house keeper though!” she waggled a finger playfully at him, and he almost smiled. John was remembering all the times she had come into the flat and how Sherlock would always ask her to make the tea.

It was a funny sort of rhythm they had fallen into. John would arrive home after his late afternoon/early evening walk and Mrs Hudson would make the tea.  In a way John liked the routine. He liked the consistency of it, liked being able to rely on a pattern. In another John hated it. He hated the lack of spontaneity, the lack of _danger_. He _missed_ the excitement, the thrill of the chase. Over time, it seemed, he had begun to share Sherlock’s love of a good murder case – although he would never admit it, not even to Sherlock.

He sighed. That was over now. It was done finished, ended. And there was no returning. After the great _exposé_ on Sherlock Holmes the great consultant detective turned out fraud, he had been taken into questioning by the police. After a while, however, it became clear that John had had nothing to do with it. John suspected Mycroft had more to do with it than the police coming to their senses, knowing what he did about the intelligence of the police force.

John almost laughed as he remembered the times Sherlock had corrected the police, especially Anderson. Oh Sherlock definitely _enjoyed_ telling Anderson he was wrong. He never grew tired of that. To be fair John never turned down an opportunity to show Anderson up, he was just careful to do it subtly.

After their tea Mrs Hudson would retire to her flat, and John would be alone again. John wasn’t quite sure how he felt about this. At times he would crave company, but whenever he was with people all he could think about was how much he wished he was alone. He knew he was being unpleasant company – and it was unfair on Mrs Hudson who tried so hard to help him retain some normalcy in his life – but he couldn’t help it. He just wanted Sherlock back.

It was getting late and John knew he should be headed to bed but he was restless, he wasn’t even tired in the slightest. He tried to sleep; nonetheless he was still awake at three o'clock in the morning. Finally admitting that he was not going to sleep that night he decided to go for a walk. Mrs Hudson would most definitely not approve if she knew, so she wouldn’t.

Creeping out the front door John made an extra effort to shut the door soundlessly. John’s walks often took him on similar routes. Today he found himself walking past the Royal Albert Hall at about half past three. He sighed. Would he ever get to feel normal again? Or would he be stuck feeling the social outcast, the person who was half welcome in society, but only out of pity? John hated that. He’d rather become a hermit, and only talk to people once every ten years.

John sank down into a bench at the corner of the street. He decided he liked the early mornings. It was just beginning to get light and the city was almost silent. Almost. There was, of course, the odd sound here or there, but mostly it was quiet. John liked the fact that he never had to talk to people at this hour. Never had to make small talk, or pretend to be engaged in conversation. He liked the tranquillity.

John was lost in his reverie when he heard a low voice in his ear.

“My Dear Watson.”


	4. Chapter 4

“My Dear Watson.”

John gave a start. He jumped up and spun around and came face to face with none other than one Sherlock Holmes.

A few moments later John felt the comfort of strong supple arms supporting him from beneath as he leaned almost horizontally into the figure. One of the hands moved to stroke his face.

“My dear, dear Watson.” At the sound of the voice John snapped his eyes open.

“I must be bloody dreaming. Either that or I’ve gone crazy.” John muttered.

“No. Honestly John, can you not tell reality from your dreams?” Sherlock said earnestly.

Finally pulling back into consciousness the full meaning of the sight laid before him came into his understanding. John jerked upright, and gaped at Sherlock.

“You cannot be standing there!” John cried, “You’re dead! I saw – you fell – you – _Sherlock!_ ”

As John said his name, he barrelled into Sherlock knocking him to the ground. Sherlock tried to struggle free but John was fuelled with pent up aggression; there was no escaping him.

“You bloody git! Sherlock! I thought you were _dead!_ I thought you were bloody. EFFING. _DEAD_.”  And John promptly burst into tears. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

Sherlock had never been any good at dealing with emotions like this but pulled John into an awkward sort of hug anyway. John accepted it gratefully as his whole body trembled with the tears he’d been holding in since Sherlock had _faked his bloody goddamn DEATH!_

“I’m still angry with you.” John mumbled into the dark collar of Sherlock’s trench coat.

“I know. But I hope you’ll understand, if you let me explain.” Sherlock whispered soothingly into his ear.

***

“I can’t believe you Molly!” John said incredulously, “You knew! You knew and you didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think it might be a good idea to tell the…” John had teetered on the edge of saying _the man who’s in love with him_ , before staying himself, “best friend of the person whose death you helped fake!”

They were sat in Molly's living room. John and Sherlock sitting in deliberately separate chairs.

“Don’t be too hard on her John,” Sherlock said trying to sound sympathetic, “it was my idea. I asked her to do it all!”

“Well I can almost expect this from you.” But John saw the badly concealed hurt in Sherlock's face and tried to backtrack, “I mean I never know what to expect from you, so I’ve learnt to expect anything.”

“Clearly you didn’t expect this.” Sherlock said quietly.

“How could _anyone_ have expected _this?_ ” John whispered, concealing his shaking hands by clasping them together tightly.

“John,” Molly said calmly and soothingly, “I’m sorry I had to keep it from you. Trust me when I say it was for the best?”

John nodded. He could see he was being unfair to her, but it hurt that he had been kept out of the loop all this time. And he still couldn’t bloody believe it.

“How did you do it?” John asked quietly.

“Why don’t you take a stab at the deduction.” Sherlock said in an attempt at a playful voice.

John racked his brains, trying to remember all that he could of the worst day of his life.

“Umm… well there was a lorry… and a bicyclist. I presume one of your homeless network?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, anything else?”

“Well Molly you must have done the post mortem.” It wasn’t a question. He thought about it for a moment longer, but he came up nought.  “Nope. I haven’t got a clue.”

Sherlock explained, with small input from Molly, how he had arranged the whole affair. He detailed how he had jumped into the lorry as one of his homeless network distracted John by crashing into him with the bike. He described how the ambulance had been arranged – and bribed – with the help of Molly. John sat there not quite managing to take it all in.

“But _why,_ Sherlock?”

Sherlock visibly sighed. This was the hard part. _How_ he had done it was easy, simple. _Why?_ This was going to be more difficult to explain.

“Because…” Sherlock looked from John to Molly, then down at his feet. “Because Moriarty had gunmen positioned on all the people I… care about.” His voiced had become very quiet. He was afraid of what John might say. What John was going to think.

John looked at Sherlock wordlessly for a moment, before closing the small space between them and enveloping Sherlock in a monstrous hug. Sherlock resisted it at first, but John was used to his uncertainty when it came to human contact and kept still, giving Sherlock time to relax into it as he always did eventually.

“Stop it John.” Sherlock mumbled half-heartedly into John’s shoulder, “this is ridiculous.”

John ignored him and held him close, soothingly stroking his head. He realised it must have been almost as hard for Sherlock as it had been for him these past few months.

Molly had been sitting on the sofa next to Sherlock but had moved for John to embrace him. Now she was stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, not knowing whether it would be more or less awkward to leave the room. But the embrace was stretching out and she soon decided it would be polite to let the couple make up for the time lost on their own.

Back in the other room the two men emerged from their embrace, and they looked at each other tentatively.

“I was lost without my blogger.” Sherlock mumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepless night, a new blog, and a cup of tea.

As always with Sherlock it was the little things that John loved. He loved the way Sherlock would glance at him from across the room, just to catch into John’s eye for a brief moment. John loved it when Sherlock would make him a cup of tea after a particularly demanding case, or when he had to do long shifts those times he actually went to work – albeit not a very good cup of tea, but the feeling was there.

Of course there were the things John didn’t like so much. John didn’t like it when Sherlock called him stupid or an idiot. John didn’t like it when a case made Sherlock arrive home in the early hours of the morning.

_That’s it_ John thought to himself, _what I really don’t like is when Sherlock makes me worry._

John resolved all this as he lay in his no longer empty bed, Sherlock sleeping beside him. He still could barely believe that he was back. He still had difficulty remembering that it was real. As he thought this he turned his head to look at Sherlock again, as if to check he was actually there. John thought back to his reaction, feeling somewhat embarrassed for having broken down like that. It was not the sort of thing he usually did. Mrs Hudson's reaction, on the other hand, had been rather predictable.

***

John and Sherlock were sat in their old seats as if no time at all had passed. John had made the tea, and it was laid out before them on the small coffee table.

“Sorry I’m late John; I was caught up at the post office! I hope you …” Mrs Hudson's voice trailed off as she stepped into the room and saw Sherlock sitting there like it was a regular Tuesday afternoon, and she dropped the shopping bag she had been holding.

Mrs Hudson stood there gaping at Sherlock, lost for words. Her face was contorted with an odd mixture of anger, incredulity and hurt.

“Oh! Sherlock! You’ve trodden mud into the carpet again.” She said, with a good crack at sounding indifferent. Although her voice betrayed her as it shook slightly – indicating a desire to use rather stronger language to describe her, not simple annoyance, but her anger at Sherlock – and her body language told them she was also feeling hurt and betrayed. “And you’re going to expect me to clean it up as well!”

“No. You’re not our house keeper.” Sherlock had said simply. At this Mrs Hudson looked at him straight in the eye, as he said “I am so very sorry Mrs Hudson.” And to her surprise he pulled her into a brief hug.

“Oh Sherlock! This is ridiculous! You bloody fool! Was it really necessary! As if the mess you made when you were here wasn’t enough! The mess you left when you were gone was hideous!” and she was crying.

***

John sighed and looked over at Sherlock once more. He just could not believe he was back! John’s sleeping patterns had always been fairly messed up, but they when Sherlock had been gone almost all resemblance of routine had been completely cast aside. This meant that now, as he lay in bed, he was beginning to get restless. So, carefully, he extracted himself from the sheets and crept toward the door.

John’s bare feet stuck to the cold floor of the kitchen as he padded his way over the kettle to make a cuppa, before moving over to the desk where his laptop sat. Opening it up, he considered what exactly he was going to do now. He had abandoned his blog when Sherlock had jumped off the top of Bart’s, and he didn’t particularly feel like going back to it; it wasn’t exactly anonymous. He sipped his tea.

“You could always start a new blog” Sherlock said from behind him. John turned to see Sherlock leaning crookedly against the door frame, wrapped in the bed sheet. John smiled; he had forgotten Sherlock’s sleeping habits were as bad as his own had become. “If you wanted more anonymity you could use a different blog site.”

“How do you do that?” John asked, “Its as if you actually know what I’m thinking”

“I don’t know I notice.” Sherlock sighed, he was almost smiling, “You are sitting at your laptop in the middle of the night staring at the login page of your blog, sipping tea. Honestly John, its not rocket science!”

John supposed her ought to be used to Sherlock’s deductive skills by now, but then again he had just spent the last three months without him. Was it really only three months? It felt like three years.

“Indeed,” John chuckled, “So which blog site would you recommend? Bearing in mind I don’t want people to know who I am, or to care.”

Sherlock moved back into the bedroom and emerged with his laptop under his arm – the one that wasn’t occupied with the bed sheet. He sat down on the sofa and patted his arm on the space next to him, beckoning John to him. John picked up his laptop and his tea – no one forgets their tea – and sat next to Sherlock.

The two of them spent the rest of the night looking at and comparing various different blog sites, before finally deciding on a rather popular site that seemed to be _exactly_ what he was looking for.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock never ate breakfast. John was used to this fact by now, and had long since given up trying to persuade him to eat a slice of toast, or a bowl of cereal. The most Sherlock ever consumed for breakfast was tea. Now John would not have it put about that he disliked tea – in his opinion it was nectar, drink of the gods – but nonetheless he didn’t think it made a particularly decent breakfast.

John was munching on his jam on toast and flicking through the newspaper at the kitchen table, and Sherlock was dutifully drinking his tea on the sofa, with the telly on in the background as he did the cryptic crossword. John found those impossible but Sherlock thought they were a mediocre morning exercise for that brain of his.

The doorbell rang. Frowning John left his toast and went to see who it could be. When he opened the door he was neither surprised nor pleased to see the familiar black car behind the familiar brunette woman.

“Mycroft.” John muttered under his breath, “Alright, just a moment, I need to put my shoes on at least. You can wait here.” John indicated that the woman could stand just inside the doorway, as he darted back up the stairs.

“Mycroft already?” Sherlock asked, and continued before receiving an answer “I knew he was quick, but I thought he would at least wait until _after_ breakfast to come knocking.”

“Yes. If you’re coming, would you _please_ put some clothes on?”

Sherlock engaged John in the briefest of stare-outs before deciding that, maybe, getting dressed was a better idea.

Twenty minutes later and John and Sherlock were sat in the plush leather chairs across from Mycroft’s oversized mahogany desk.

“So, little brother, you’re back from the dead.” He said with a knowing smile.

“Mycroft. Given up on the diet, I see?” Sherlock retorted.

“Come, come, Sherlock. You still owe me a favour.”

“Excuse me? The last time I checked, it was you who was indebted to me. Don’t think that the small part you played in faking my death will be enough to pay off selling out to Moriarty.” Sherlock spat, “No. In fact, I look forward to having a _finally_ useful contact in the British government.”

“Don’t think that I’m going to-” Mycroft was cut short by John rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Sorry, John. Old habits die hard, and you know sibling rivalry. I understand you and Harry never got on well.”

“Yes. Well no we didn’t… but that’s not my point! What I meant was I would have thought this meeting would have been about something a bit more urgent than sibling rivalry.”

“Indeed, this meeting was not intended to be a bickering match between me and my brother – although I am sure he would argue that sibling rivalry is always and urgent matter – I had a much more serious matter to discuss.” By the end of this little speech Mycroft had become very grave and all remnants of merriment had fallen from his face.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look of mixed terror and dread. Could they not have just _one_ day of peace? Honestly if it wasn’t for those two England would fall. Unfortunately Mycroft knew this. Mycroft knew everything. If it concerned the country, himself, Sherlock, or John. Mycroft was more concerned about the wellbeing of the country as a whole rather than the wellbeing of individuals, even if he was related to them. This worried John, and he was sure it worried Sherlock, even if he didn’t let on.


	7. Chapter 7

"OH FORGET IT! YOU'RE AN _IDIOT_ " Sherlock snapped as he slammed the bedroom door shut.

John just stood there in front of the door holding the cup of tea he'd made for Sherlock in his hand. He sighed. It seemed as though this was going to be one of those cases again; one of the ones that caused Sherlock to cover his arms with patch after patch after patch. As ever John feared that Sherlock would slip up and take up smoking again, or worse. And he didn't think he could bear that. Not now.

He placed the tea down on the table and sank into his preferred armchair rubbing his face with his hands. He was tired, he realised. He hadn't really _felt_ tired in months, despite his worsening insomnia. _At least I won't be alone at night anymore,_ he said to himself as he thought all this. Although this thought cheered him slightly, he was still painfully aware of what this case might do to Sherlock if he didn't- if he wasn't careful.

Despite being unsure of state Sherlock's particular temper was in, John knew he had to do something. Tentatively He twisted the door knob and poked his head through the door. If Sherlock had noticed him, he didn’t let on. He was sat on the edge of the bed head in his hands, looking as though he was like to yank his hair out. John crept in and shut the door behind him, if Sherlock hadn’t noticed him before he had now.

“John, I– I need it. I need it John. The pressure, it’s too much. I can’t do this John.” Sherlock mumbled his voice strained and hollow.

“I know. But you cannot give in. You cannot let the case get to you this time. You’ve got to be strong.” John encouraged. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock as he sat next to him on the bed, enveloping him in yet another unwanted embrace.

 “You don’t have to do this, you know.” Sherlock said in search of an escape of this physical contact.

“Shut up Sherlock, stop being ridiculous. I– I…” his voice faltered and he almost lost his resolve. Almost. “Yes I do have to do this Sherlock, because you need me. I know it and you know it, even if you refuse to admit it in your stubbornness.”

“John, you know I have no care for emotional speeches such as this.” Sherlock protested.

“I am doing this whether or not you deem it necessary. And I am doing it because I love you and because I do not ever want to have to see you… slip up.”

“Bu-” Sherlock started confusedly.

John turned him around so they were facing each other. He gripped Sherlock by the shoulders, so tight that his nails were digging in through his clothing.

“I refuse to let that happen. I’m not doing this just for you, mind, I’m doing it for me too. I cannot see you fall away. Do you understand me?!” by the end of his speech John was practically shaking Sherlock, although his voice remained low and insistent.

Sherlock merely hung his head submissively and nodded limply. John let his hands relax and fall to rest on Sherlock’s knees. He hated to see Sherlock in this state. He hated seeing Sherlock so unquestionably helpless and afraid.

In a sudden turn of insanity John lifted his hand to Sherlock’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. John stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s strong cheek bones before leaning his head forward and kissing Sherlock.

It was impulsive. It was a gamble. It was thrilling.

John felt an electric pulse spark the moment their lips touched. For a moment he regretted it; Sherlock’s frozen posture leading him to believe he had made a grievous mistake, but – after his signature pause to acclimatise to a situation – Sherlock parted his lips, welcoming the kiss. His breath came in short nervous rasps as their kiss grew more passionate.

After a moment longer John pulled away and Sherlock rested his forehead on his other half’s – his better half’s. John kept his eyes closed, afraid of what he might see in Sherlock’s, afraid of what Sherlock might see in his.


End file.
